Working as a police officer in Mexico-Chapter 1715 - 771: You Need to Be Cultured, or You Won’t Even Know How to Curse Properly

Afternoon, Washington D.C., White House.

A rare sunny day.

The sun's so intense it makes one's balls itch.

President Harold Wilkes is enjoying an undisturbed afternoon.

In front of him is a beautifully decorated copy of the "American Bird Atlas," with the automatic sprinkler system on the South Lawn outside creating a small rainbow in the sunlight.

For a fleeting moment, it almost makes one forget the war-torn country beyond.

The door was flung open with such force that the heavy oak door hit the wall with a dull thud.

Wilkes' hand shook, spilling tea onto the Bird Atlas, staining it with a dark brown blot.

His pants were soaked.

Shit...

The one who barged in was his private assistant, a young man named Thomas Keane, in his early thirties who had followed Wilkes for years from the state legislature to the White House.

Considered a confidant.

But at this moment, Thomas' forehead was covered in beads of sweat, and he was breathing so heavily as if he had just run a marathon, his tie crooked to one side.

"Toma?" Wilkes frowned, a foreboding feeling passing through his mind, but he tried to keep his voice calm, "What's got you so spooked?"

"Mr. President..."

Thomas quickly shut the door, neglecting protocol, "News from Kentucky just came in, unofficial channels, but it can almost be confirmed."

"What happened in Kentucky? Did the Mexicans break through?" Wilkes put down the book and sat up straight.

"Not the Mexicans."

Thomas took a deep breath, "It's the British. The Kentucky Governor's Office, or rather, the 'Freedom Alliance' Kentucky provisional administrative authority, signed an agreement with the British side."

"Agreement? Military logistics support agreement? Or procurements?" Wilkes pressed on, but his gut told him something was off. If it were routine military cooperation, Thomas wouldn't look like this.

Thomas swallowed, his eyes filled with absurdity, "It's a commercial lease agreement. They've leased out management and exclusive usage rights of Louisville Port's Pier 3, Pier 5, and the accompanying fifty-acre storage area and customs bonded warehouses to the 'Royal North American Trade and Development Company,' newly registered in London, backed by the Lloyd Banking Group and two familiar British defense contractors."

Silence filled the office for a few seconds.

The color drained from Wilkes' face bit by bit.

He stood up slowly from his chair, stiff as a marionette.

He circled the massive mahogany desk, standing before Thomas, his voice almost inaudible: "Say that again?"

"The British have leased crucial piers and land at the Port of Louisville for ninety-nine years. The agreement includes priority use of the railway branch to the port, and... and the 'extraterritorial rights and security autonomy' clause for British personnel within the leased area."

Thomas closed his eyes and opened them again, "Mr. President, that's basically... a protectorate. Something seen in the nineteenth century at East University. They've dressed it up with 'security needs' and 'commercial conveniences,' but the essence hasn't changed."

"Protectorate..." Wilkes repeated the word, and then a wave of rage mixed with a chilling dread surged to the top of his head!

"Damned Kentucky! Damned Freedom Alliance! Damned Brits!"

No... culture at all, just swearing...

He roared, spitting saliva nearly onto Thomas's face, his voice distorted with extreme anger, "How dare they create a protectorate on United States of America's land?! This is treason! Brazen treason! Those bastards, are their necks topped with pig brains?! Do they think the British are what? Philanthropists?! Those are vampires armed with guns and contracts! Why don't they directly change the state flag to the Union Jack?! These short-sighted maggots! They've ruined Kentucky! They're dismembering this country!"

He rages like a beast trapped in a cage, pacing swiftly on the costly Persian carpet, waving his arms, his expensive suit coat ripped open, his tie choking him until he gasps, he loosens it with a pull.

"Summon the cabinet! No... the cabinet is useless! Contact the Kentucky Governor immediately! I want to ask that son of a bitch myself, if he's been blinded by British Pounds or intoxicated by British gentlemanly manners! Now!"

Thomas stood there, unmoving, only looking at his president with an eye of near pity.

That gaze was like a bucket of ice water, extinguishing part of Wilkes' fiery rage, leaving him feeling weak.

"Sir."

"The Governor's office refused to answer the White House's direct line. They released information through the 'Freedom Alliance' spokesperson to the media saying this is a 'war-time special economic arrangement,' aimed to 'introduce international capital and management experience, accelerate Kentucky's post-war reconstruction, and provide more efficient support to coalition forces logistics.' They also said... it complies with the 'temporary charter' of the 'Freedom Alliance' granting states' 'emergency economic autonomy.'

"Economic autonomy..."

Wilkes seemed drained of all strength, staggering back two steps, he slumped heavily back into his high-backed chair. The chair creaked under his weight. He covered his face with both hands, rubbing it, then looked up, staring blankly at the ceiling mural depicting the scene of the Independence War.

"They never needed me, I'm just a... fixture here, a symbol to read script on the radio, to smile in photos. The military doesn't listen to me, the governors treat me like air, and now even foreigners can directly do business with my 'governors,' carve up territory... while I, the President of the United States of America, found out from a news assistant."